Scars
by darksupernatural
Summary: Just something I thought of and wrote in a couple hours. Scars tell a life story if you listen.


**A/N: Okay so I know Thursday nights aren't the best time to post a new story but anyway... I had to do this. Call it an introduction for a new OC if she gets the right response from you all. It's a little different set up but I'm hoping it works. Names aren't mentioned in the story but anyone should be able to which brother this is. (Mish, this is going to drive you insane, hopefully!) Leave me a review if you like the concept of her and you will see her again. Thanks for checkin' this out.**

**Also, please check out V.R. Jennings. I've been a beta for her for a while and she has an awesome story. It's called The Struggle Within. She's a phenomenal writer. Please give her the welcome she deserves. And to let you know, I haven't disappeared from the world of writing like some of you thought I would. I've been working madly on about four projects. The first of them you should be seeing in just a couple weeks. It's a co-write with the uber talented Soncnica. If you haven't read her stuff look her up. You won't regret it. Drop her a review while you're there. Anyway, I'm done talkin'. Enjoy the story and I hope to hear from you. **

**Scars**

I know what they are. Where they come from. I know the life he leads that gives him a new one at every turn. I lead the same life. Fighting things in the dark. They don't scare me like they probably should. Guess I learned that at an early age. He's sleeping beside me; for all intents and purposes it looks like the sleep of the dead. His chest rises and falls rhythmically though. I know the hunter in him, the slightest noise and he's awake and ready for war.

Scars. He's got them, each telling its own story. I set my breathing to his pace, lying on my side by his. Not touching, no, never touching. He comes to me for rest, when the world we live in becomes too much, too fast. He comes to me to breathe, to heal.

My eyes are the only part of me that moves, roaming over his body. In the dim light of dawn, the sunrise trying valiantly to move through the curtains on the window, I watch the light play off the hollows and ridges of his body. It shows the differences of his skin tone, the pink of new scars, the white of those not long healed and the tan of those from long ago all blending into his skin, disappearing into the past he wants to forget as he heals.

Scars. I look at his face; his temple holds the first one I see. It rests near his hair line, small and nearly hidden, still pink. I bet if I touched it he would still flinch, the ache still there from some random impact.

He breathes and my eyes drift down his cheek, his jaw, his throat. Another scar makes its home there, this one white, starting to tan once more. This is a story, not so fresh in one's mind, caused by something out to get someone he loves. Oh, he won't forget, but no one else will ever know. He breathes, his head turning to block the scar from my sight. He's not stupid, no, he knows I watch him. He knows I know his story. He knows though that I'll never ask. He won't tell unless he needs to. Unless he wants to. My eyes move again to the multiple stories etched into the skin of a bare shoulder. They're layered there, the scars, the history of his life can be plotted by his scars, like a course across the sea mapped out by the stars. The layers on his shoulder tell me more than he ever could, ever _would,_ even if I asked. An old burn, the skin slightly purple looking, lies under the white of a bullet wound, healed. A knot of tissue lies there, raised. I can feel it under my fingers as if I was touching it. I'm not. No, I won't touch him. Not unless he wants me to. His scars are something he doesn't want traced, touched. He wants to forget he has them.

Scars. I see more as my eyes drift lower, from his shoulder to the center of his chest. I see a scattering of small marks, all white, all long healed as they make a pattern like sprinkles of water in the desert sand. He hurts when he sees those marks; the words remembered hurting more than any injury although they weren't meant. A rift formed that was healed, forgiven yes, but no, never forgotten. The memory resides within the scars. I look from there, my eyes glassy with tears at his hurt. A silent burn starts deep in my chest, the only emotion I allow myself to feel tonight. Hurt for him. I follow another scar, this time a set of three, deep and red looking high on his ribs under his elbow where it rested against his chest. They're long, jagged, ripped into his flesh by something inhuman, something that wanted to kill. It didn't succeed. Maimed? Yes. Weakened? Only until he could find the strength within to lift the flare gun. He healed.

My eyes drift still lower, to the flat plain of his abdomen. This is another story I'll never know. The mass of small scars that rests there are old. Tan to match his skin, they're years old. He doesn't remember what happened with those. The small crisscrossing lines the evidence of something just taken in stride. He shifts, my perusal not going unnoticed, even as he sleeps. He turns from me, his back coming under my scrutiny as he stretches slightly, placing his fisted hand on his thigh, his arm straight along his ribs. My eyes start this time where the blanket lays low across his hips. For the first inch or so there are no scars, probably the only spot on his body where there's only smooth, tanned skin. I wish so much I could touch that inch, just to feel him, not his back story. I fist my hand silently, vowing to let him rest. He needs it. Maybe someday I'll touch. Not tonight. I peel my eyes away from that spot and allow them to travel up. There, they rest on another set of scars. Deep welts raised there, red on his skin. They were painful once, ripping him, flaying him alive as they bled. Now just another reminder of his life, another sacrifice he won't forget. He took the punishment that caused these scars. Better him than one he loves. It's always that way.

Scars. He has more than I've ever seen on one man. My eyes lift again this time going to the exit that is opposite the entrance. His shoulder. There's another scar there. It's bigger than its counterpart. A bullet passed through. He'd call it perks of the job. It wasn't a monster that put it there. It was people. That's his idea of an easy day. Dealing with human evil. I'd call it another day at work. It might have been a human hand on the trigger but the puppet strings were pulled by a black eyed monster.

Scars. My eyes drift once more, higher, seeing another spot, a square of flesh that's unmarred by the war we fight. I can't help myself this time. The spot is just big enough for my hand and I rest it there. Unmoving, holding my breath. I touched. I shouldn't, he needs to heal. To rest. I feel the change in his breathing then and I know. I close my eyes and curse under my breath. I know he's awake. He rolls over and looks at me, his eyes alert. He's calm, still relaxed, but now fully awake. His arm wraps around my waist, low, where the blanket crosses my hips, his fingers playing with the lace of my camisole where it rests a couple inches above my navel. His calloused hand lays across one of my scars. He always touches it, never lets himself forget he gave it to me. After all, it's how we met. Scars tell our life stories. His finger traces it once before shifting and wrapping around the protrusion of my hip bone. It's not a bruising touch. It's gentle as he pulls me back against him. My sensitive body can feel him, his scars. His life.

"Go to sleep, Chevy." He uses the familiar nickname for me. Another thing we have in common. I close my eyes and breathe, setting my pace to his. In the afternoon we'll go out for dinner. My Chevy Nova, my Deuce Coup, will pace his car after that. I'll race him on the double yellow to the edge of town where I'll open my sunroof and watch him cross the line, the wind blowing my black hair back from my face. He'll have the music loud enough that I'll hear him for miles. That's our goodbye until the next time he comes to me to heal. He'll have another scar, another story, another bit of history that I won't ask and he won't tell.

**A/N: Love ya all. Drop me a line and check out my girls. I can't say it enough. They rock! Can't wait to hear from you to see if you want to see "Chevy" back in another story. Any idea which brother this is? Cookies and hugs if you guess right!**


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